WH40K: Champion of Abbawan
by Sir Rawk
Summary: Lon Dury was a humble and hard-working farmer. Back in '98 he fought in the campaign against the Virimak Uprising. They called him a hero. Lon hoped to never be reminded of those days again. But now, a vast and terrible army, a Green Horror, has swept into the Immrian Belt sub-sector, and Lon Dury may have to fight again. For his home and for his entire species...
1. Chapter 1

**CHAMPION OF ABBAWAN**

* * *

 **++ 1 ++**

 **ABBAWAN. IMMRIAN BELT SUB-SECTOR. ULTIMA SEGMENTUM**

 **Annual Fall Tithe, 3rd Day of Idrayn, 103.M42**

It was the fifth time in as many years that the Tithe Ambassadors drove their trucks up to the farm and implored Lon Dury to join the Imperial Guard. And it was the fifth time the tall, broad shouldered farmer shook his head, glanced shyly at the ground where his feet were planted firmly in the alluvial mud of his ancestors, and said 'I serve my wife and children now. I am sorry to offend you, your cause is a just one and worthy of consideration. But I am no longer a fighting man. I barely got through my service with the PDF in '98, what good would I be so far from my family and lands? You'll find younger and more willing men further south of the valley.'

The Ambassadors were six elderly men in the pale blue vestments of the local PDF Munitorum. Lon did not know them all, but the one in the passenger's seat was a familiar enough face. The man's name was Ralter, and both knew the ritual well. Ralter would beseech Lon to join the cause and Lon would decline and then apologise in his customary shy and straightforward manner. The very epitome of a good, honest, hardworking Abbawan farmer. Behind Ralter the troop transport was already half full of willing young men and women for the tithes demanded by the Imperium. But a man still had the right to decline Guard service upon the world of Abbawan, as it was far from the wars that waged across the galaxy in the Emperor's name. Even so, Abbawan never once came up short in its supply of eager young troops for the Imperial Tithes.

So, again, the old men shook their heads and the new recruits looked at Lon as though he were some inexcusable half-wit. Lon held his ground, as he always did, as shameful as the hopeful glances from the Ambassadors and the ignorant scowls of the younger men made him.

Like all young men and women of Abbawan Lon Dury had completed his mandatory service with the PDF with the dedication and determination of a man who wanted only to do his best, and get home as soon his two-year service was up. But within months of Lon's enlistment Abbawan ran afoul of the greatest conflict the agri-world had suffered in all its history. Lon had returned with medals pinned to his chest and scars stitched across his body. The worst, however, were the scars of memory: fighting alongside the Imperial Guard and the Astartes during the Virimak Uprising of '97 and '98 along the Ma-Ladriak Coast. That had been five years ago, and the stories of his heroism were still being told in garrisons and bars throughout the Southern lowlands to this very day. It was said he had killed an entire platoon of Virimak fighters with his bare hands, had numerously saved the lives of PDF and Guardsmen alike, and had single-handedly taken out a heavy-bolter bunker. Some of it was true, but much of it was rumour and fanciful fabrication. At least in the way the stories were being told. Lon had only done what any human would do. Protect your own, kill the enemy, do everything you can to get back home alive to see your family in one piece. War was simple that way. But they had turned his actions into the stuff of legend. So much so, that he could not even walk into town without being pointed at and slapped upon the shoulder, or visit a local bar without some idiot asking him to recount the tales of his heroic deeds and get paid with free ale all night. Everyone looked up to him, as though he were something more than an ordinary farmer, and the infamy only served to make him uncomfortable and reclusive.

'This isn't the Virimak we're talking about now, Lon.' Old Ralter said in even tones, attempting as he had each year before to change the younger man's mind. 'This is about protecting those that you love, your wife _and_ your children. Protecting Artenville and the Southern lowlands – _Emperor's mercy_ , all of Abbawan!'

Lon nodded slowly, unable to look the old ambassador in the eye.

'Lon, the Guard need men like you. To lead them, to show them the way. Men like you can make a difference out there.'

'I'm staying with the farm, Ralter.' Lon said quietly.

'But this is different now,' the ambassador urged. 'Things have changed out there. We're not talking about fighting against common heretics taking up arms against the Imperium; we're talking about things much more dire than that. We face the Xenos now. _Greenskins!_ '

Lon looked up then, unable to avoid such striking news. 'Orks?' The word barely louder than a whisper.

The old ambassador nodded. 'They're pouring into the system by the millions. A true invasion this one, Lon. You must join the Guard. Other worlds upon the outskirts of the Immrian Belt are already forcing men to enlist into the Guard, such are the numbers of the Foe. We need you out there, Lon. Your world needs you.'

Lon swallowed and his throat made an audible clicking sound. His mind raced, he remembered everything from the Ma-Ladriak Coast, things he rarely pondered upon in the days since his return: men and women he had known since school, some who had tilled fields alongside his own, screaming and burning, plunging bayonets into one another, madness splitting their once humble lives asunder in every direction. The moan and roar of falling shells, his Commander blown to pieces, one moment standing there, howling for his platoon to brace themselves and move forward, then the next nothing but a fine red mist in the air, curls of dark, rancid smoke. He remembered the yellow-green nerve-gas floating into the trenches, the pyres of burning corpses, the oil fires that the citizens of Abbawan were still trying to put out to this very day, and he remembered the faces of the fifty-three men and women in his company who had died before him, some of them in his arms, unable to do anything but watch as each was swept away into the Emperor's light. Some slowly, others in a sudden bright flash like Commander Josett.

Then he thought about Orks, and his skin crawled.

'If they come to The Southern lowlands I'll be waiting for them. But I will remain here on the farm with my family.'

The old man nodded sadly. Some of the recruits in the transport shook their heads and spat over the sides, glaring at Lon as though he were some useless turncoat. As yellow-bellied a traitor as the Virimak had been. He wanted to grab them and smash his fist into their faces, to open up his flailed and wounded memories to them, to show them the hell they could barely fathom in their blithe, young brains, the hell he had lived through in its entirety back in '98. But he was no psyker to push his thoughts into the minds of other men. And the fearsome strength endowed within his limbs, to be able to pick a man up and hurl him off the truck, for he was big enough to do so, leached from him, afflicted by the shadow of strife and shame.

Ralter must have seen the dark struggle within the man. When he spoke again, his tone was sympathetic. 'Well, I guess we'll see you next year then?'

Lon half grinned, feeling the old man's words lift the cold weight of obligation from his back. 'I guess so,' he replied.

He watched the troop transport rumble away from the farm and up into the hills surrounding the peaceful valley until it was little more than a speck popping in and out between the pines before it finally disappeared from sight.

Lon stood there watching the wooded hills for a long while, his duties forgotten, simply breathing in the cool pine-scented air. It was sweet, soured only a little by the distant smog from the small town of Artenville. Merrywings and bluehoppers shrieked and trilled from a nearby copse of trees. Somehwere a woodcutter was working his way slowly through a pile of wood for the oncoming winter. Soon the land would be quilted in white, blanketed in crackling silence. It was a glorious time of year. Breathing was something he enjoyed, and never once took for granted. Many of those who had fought by his side upon the Ma-Ladriak Coast were not so lucky.

 _Greenskins_ , he wondered with an almost macabre curiosity.

The idea welled up a swathe of legendary tales from his childhood. Terrifying beasts twice the size of the largest man. He wondered at the prospect of aliens, actual malevolent xenos, invading the worlds near Abbawan, and the terror those poor worlds and their brave defenders now faced. War was coming, it was inevitable, no matter how hard he might try to hide from it.

When a pair of arms encircled him he could barely control the shock-bolt flinch that ran through him.

The arms tensed but then their owner pressed her hands against his broad chest and buried her face into the muscles of his back. He could feel her warmth suffusing him.

'I was going to ask who our visitors were,' his wife said to him, in that bright cheerful voice of hers that was the master of his heart and the peacekeeper of his mind. 'But from that reaction, I think I can guess.'

'I told them no, Iailia.' Lon said, relaxing into her embrace.

'I know,' she replied.

He turned around to face her. Her bright, chocolate brown eyes appraised him from a tip-toe. He pushed his fingers through the softness of her long blonde hair. She smiled, her face lighting up the shadows in his heart as it did every day since they had first met. He pulled her in close for a kiss. It was long and lasting, and gentle. No Greenskins here. No screaming. No howling of shells or the bark of autoguns and las fire. Just the love of his life sharing his pains and cutting their ferocity in half simply by her presence. He hugged her then and felt a rush of emotion flow through him.

As he breathed in the gingerlilly scent of Iailia's hair he could see their two boys watching them from behind the farmhouse, shirking their duties of woodcutting and cleaning out the ferigg pens, though he did not mind. Their sons would also be wondering who had visited the farm. And like the past two years, since the boys had been learning their histories at school, they would interrogate their father over supper, demanding to know why he was not charging across the galaxy to fight the good fight alongside the Imperial Guard to face the vile forces of the Green Horror.

Tonight, Lon Dury thought to himself as he pulled his wife tightly to him, it would be difficult to come up with a reason why he shouldn't. Old Ralter's words had struck hard. Leaving him not only with a sense of shame that he was shirking a higher duty to his people, higher than that required of his family, but a sense of imminent desolation in his refusal to fight. A slow, dawning dread crept forth from the back of his mind, like the nerve-gas that had floated down the trenches of Ma-Ladriak. It loped forward to crash against the cage he had bolted shut for five determined years. He had not allowed that beast to roam free in a long time. For some reason he could not calm its susurrations now as the sun sank low across the hills like the fading glow of a melta-blast.

War was coming to Abbawan, and Lon Dury could hide from it no longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAMPION OF ABBAWAN**

* * *

 **++ 2 ++**

 **ABBAWAN. IMMRIAN BELT SUB-SECTOR. ULTIMA SEGMENTUM**

 **Artenville & Surrounding Landholds**

 **13th Day of Lentus, 103.M42**

He tried to get up but his wife straddled him, as confidently as she would one of her wayward steeds out in the paddock. She giggled softly and pushed him back onto the bed, her small hands attempting to pin his huge wrists to the mattress. Her hair was a warm blonde milieu between their faces, the sun streaming in through the bedroom windows highlighted golden shimmers in it; her breasts lightly brushed his chest, and her chocolate eyes peered deeply into his. Their lips touched, both grinning quietly.

'Where do you think you're going, Mr. Dury?' Iailia asked in a defiant whisper.

Lon chuckled low, knowing the game now was not to wake the boys who had only just lately begun to sleep past dawn. 'To town, Mrs. Dury. I have to sell at least five ferrigs today and pick up a trancheon-oscillator for the waste-plant. And I thought I might pick up a few other things, something for the boys perhaps. Maybe something for _you_.'

' _Really_?' his wife bit his neck and pushed her lips up against his ear. Her breath sent thrills along his spine, making him squirm and chuckle like an idiot. 'And why would you get something for _me_?' she whispered, slowly moving against him.

Lon grinned and bit her back. She gasped and slapped his cheek playfully. Without any warning he spun her onto her back reversing their position.

'Clever boy,' she sighed.

Lon laughed. 'You ain't seen nothin' yet.'

'Oh really?'

'I was going to get you something, because I know a certain special day is coming up soon and I didn't want to forget it this time.'

She pushed herself up and kissed him. Together they rolled across the bed giggling and touching.

They moved against each other, and as play kindled into passion Iailia whispered into his ear. 'You haven't forgotten in five years.'

Just the mention of that simple stretch of time after the war froze him. But then she nuzzled into him again and soon all thoughts and worries about the past - and possible future - melted into a delightful morning of warmth, deep caresses and slow, steady rhythms.

Soon enough, he and Iailia were up making breakfast for the boys, tickling and teasing one another in the kitchen. Osham and Jonas, who usually slept all the way through to ten o'clock, wandered out into the dining area rubbing their eyes and complaining that their parents had made far too much of a racket this morning– though they were grinning as they said it. Lon admitted that, indeed, he and Iailia had made a terrible racket this morning and should have been more considerate to their sons overextended sleeping habits, but it was in fact nowhere near as much noise as could have been made. Then Lon proceeded to show Osham and Jonas exactly how much noise he could make inside the house. He roared aloud and crashed his feet against the floor, making the plates rattle and bounce atop the breakfast table. Then he chased the two squealing boys around the kitchen catching them and tickling them till they screamed and pleaded for him to stop.

It was a great morning to start the day. And already Abbawan's sun was warming the Southern lowlands to a fine and crisp forty-five degrees, shining as brightly as the Emperor's hope in a perfect blue sky. He almost regretted having to drive the old farm-utility into town.

It had been several months since the Tithe ambassadors had driven by the farm, and word of the dangers of the oncoming invasion were spreading far and wide. The Orks had been pushed back to a standstill some said, but others claimed the xenos were overwhelming the Imperial forces altogether.

'Look at this piece,' Brog said with a gleam in his eyes.

The stocky, black bearded ex-Corporal stooped below the counter and withdrew a long item wrapped in dark cloth.

He placed it gently next to the trancheon-oscillator Lon had purchased. Although the oscillator was only a fourth its size the wrapped item appeared to be less than half the oscillator's weight. Reverently the mini-munitorum owner unfurled the piece to reveal the ancient engineering and detail of the item within.

'A Mars IV,' he said in a soft, awe-filled tone. 'Older than our forefather's tales about _their_ forefathers, and still one of the best pieces you'll see this side of the Immrian Belt.'

Lon gasped, and leaned over to touch the las rifle with a gentle deferential hand. In awe he traced his fingers along the metallic framework and mok-wood plastic grip and butt, noting the power rune was well into the green, with a small red dot beside it signifying the weapon's safety was on. He could feel grains and fine oils rub off onto his fingers and wondered at the ancient weapon's material, where it had come from, what horrors it had withstood. How many men had died holding her, he wondered, pointing her muzzle at the Foe, assured she would bring the Emperor's wrath upon whatever they faced.

'She must be worth a fortune!' Lon whispered.

He had driven into town to sell his ferrigs, which had fetched a good price, and to shop for food and essentials, and pick up a few special things for his wife and kids. Everyone in Artenville was preparing for a possibility that no one wanted to admit to. The atmosphere in town was one of short exchanges, hurried passage and curt nods. Lon had not expected to go anywhere near the mini-munitorum today, or any other day for that matter, but old Ralter's words still echoed in his head.

Brog and Lon had served together on the Ma Ladriak Coast. Neither of them spoke much about those days, only having to look into the other man's eyes to remember it. But now Lon was living all the way out on the farm they only saw each other once every six or seven months.

Lon had not seen a las-rifle since '98, fighting alongside the Imperial Guard, and even then it had been at a distance. Watching as the Guard manoeuvred far ahead of the PDF troops, who were only armed with primitive autoguns and stubbers, to storm the Virimaks' headquarters. He remembered the rattling howl of the things and the sudden zip-flash of their bright red bolts cutting through the screaming enemy. Just touching such an ancient and hallowed weapon gave him goose bumps.

'Not as much as you think,' Brog replied with a grin. 'This little piece will only set you back about thirty thousand pazeks.'

Lon took his hand off the weapon and shook his fingers out, laughing. 'Is that all? And how much for touching it?'

Brog shrugged. 'I'll accept your first born.'

They laughed. Lon was drawn back to the weapon and shook his head, mesmerized by its details; the fine filigree and ancient scripture etched into the mok-wood, the odd nicks and scratches it had sustained in its service to the Emperor. 'How did you get this?'

Brog shrugged again. 'This one came in off the last journeyman from Phalai. Some Guardsman died and passed it on to his next of kin – fellow lowlanders. They didn't know what to do with it so they sold it to me.'

Lon raised his eyebrows. 'I know what _I_ would've done with it.'

Brog snuffed out a laugh, his black beard flaring with a life of its own. 'I know what you would've done with it too, and I'd be so much the poorer for it.'

Lon shook his head. 'Thirty thousand, huh?'

'That's the fetching price around the Belt, I hear. I might keep it. After all, what with the invasion of the Belt, maybe I'll be needing it sooner than later. I pray to the Emperor's mercy that I won't.'

'So do I,' Lon said. 'You're a lucky man, Brog. To own such a beautiful piece. Be careful though. There'll be young men aplenty out there keen enough to take it off your hands. For free!'

Brog grinned and spread his arms wide. 'They'll have to get past all this!'

They were huge limbs, thick with roping muscle. He might not have had Lon's height but he was certainly thicker and heftier than most men throughout the lowlands, with a protruding belly to match. Five years in the mini-munitorum had softened him more than it had Lon on the farm.

Lon leaned across the counter and punched Brog's pendulous belly. 'You've got to catch them first, Brog. You won't be chasing down any youngbloods too soon with that hanging off your front end. They could prop you on the front of a Leman Russ to clear the snows this winter.'

Brog laughed. 'What can I say? My wife loves me too much, and her cooking is the best in the South. And she loves this. The home life is for me I've decided – good cooking, lots of loving, and a whole lot of no more marching and shouting, that's for sure.'

'I'm with you on that,' Lon said laughing, and shook his old battle-brother's hand. He said his farewells and like always, though both knew he was lying through his teeth, promised he would see Brog again sooner than later this time.

Lon stepped out of the mini-munitorum back out into the sunshine on the street. Winter was well and truly on its way if the soft biting wind had a say in it. He could taste the foul exhaust of town-wagons and utilities as they rumbled up and down the main road, and longed for the fresh air back on the farm again.

A small four-wheeler suddenly veered from a side street and shot up onto the curb. The transport screeched to a halt barely a yard from where Lon stood. Lon had almost dumped the hefty trancheon-oscillator onto the pavement in his desperation to avoid being crushed by the vehicle.

' _Hey!_ ' he roared, forcing several townsfolk to scatter away from him. He hadn't used that voice in a long time, it matched his size and the serious burning gleam in his green eyes, the scar running down his cheek.

But the driver was completely ignoring him and staring up through her windshield. Behind her other town-wagons and trucks were screeching to a halt. Some of them honked their horns but others were doing the same thing as the driver of the four-wheeler. Then came the gasps and shouts of terror along the street.

Lon turned to see what everyone was looking at – and his heart froze.

Beyond the outer limits of Artenville, over the hills to the west where the sun shone prettily atop the pines and over the rolling fields, a long black plume of smoke stretched across the sky.

Then the first of a small group of junket dropships appeared against the bright pretty blue expanse, chugging oily black smoke behind them like a miser's old bomb. The ships were raggedy looking things covered in spikes and bulbous attachments. Though no one in the Southern lowlands had ever seen them firsthand before, they all knew the stories and understood exactly what they were looking at. Everyone in the street stared in horror as the makeshift flying vehicles zipped through the sky and over the hills, circling the long plume of smoke.

' _Greenskins_!' a man cried.

' _The Orks are here, on Abbawan_!' another gasped. ' _They're already here_!'

Lon felt a terrible hole open up beneath him, inside him. Just over those hills was his farmstead, his _family!_ The whole reason he had moved them so far away from town was because he assumed, strategically, the town would be the first place to be attacked. That's what a human army would have done. Taken hold of the town first and turned it into a stronghold.

He would have fallen completely into the great wallowing hole of fear that threatened to devour him if someone had not clutched his arm then in a fierce grip.

' _Lon?_ '

He turned. Brog's face looked as ashen and pale as his own must have. The man's dark beard seemed to be the only thing solid and real about it. That and the fierce blue eyes. The ex-corporal's eyes burrowed into his with a knowing light, ripping him out of the hole and into the harrowing immediate.

'Take my wagon,' Brog rumbled at him, pushing keys into Lon's trembling hand. 'It'll get you back home faster than your old trundle-box, and it can go off-road. And take _this_. It's free. You could use it better than anyone on Abbawan.'

Lon looked down at the keys and the las rifle in his hands. His eyes were awash with tears. His vision burned and blurred. 'Iailia?' he muttered. 'My boys?'

Brog slapped him then, hard enough to stagger him. 'Take my wagon and bring them back to Artenville, Lon. Retirement's no longer an option. You hear me _Sergeant_ Dury? _Go_!'

Lon needed no further persuading. He opened the door of Brog's huge bush-wagon transport and jumped behind the wheel. The engine thundered into life and the vehicle's huge wheels squealed and smoked before it launched down the road.

Brog watched his Sergeant and old friend speed away in the bush-wagon, out of Artenville, off toward the hills, mounting the curb to dodge traffic fighting to come back the other way. The black bearded corporal prayed his wagon and the las rifle would be enough for his old battle-brother's needs. It did not look good out there. Lon's chances were thin. In many respects Brog wondered if he should have kept his friend back, it would be safer here in town. The war hero would have stood a far better chance facing against the Orks alongside a company of armed PDF troops with the Imperial Guard at their backs. The PDF and the Guard would surely be on their way soon. But Brog knew that even he would not have waited while his family's house was likely burning in the distance.

'Emperor's Might be with you, old friend,' the corporal whispered. He turned then, back to his shop. He had his own family to protect, weapons to be readied, fellow PDF troops to gather. The Orks had finally come to Abbawan. There was a war to be fought.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAMPION OF ABBAWAN**

* * *

 **++ 3 ++**

 **ABBAWAN. IMMRIAN BELT SUB-SECTOR. ULTIMA SEGMENTUM**

 **Outside Artenville**

 **13th Day of Lentus, 103.M42**

The explosion rocked the bush-wagon off the dirt track toward a thick stand of timbalenes.

Lon barely righted the wheel in time as a searing wash of flame shot over the windscreen. Fingers of black soot clutched at the glass. The leaves on the timbalenes ignited instantly and the bush-wagon juddered violently over a tumble of strewn rubble and smouldering blow down.

The Ork warbuggy had fired a rocket at a nearby house and sent the entire thing into the sky. A huge ball of roiling flame, the power of which was extraordinary. Overkill for such a meek and defenceless target.

Lon slammed the accelerator to the floor and steered straight for the xenos' vehicle. The bushwagon broadsided the warbuggy at bone shattering speed. Steel exploded against steel as Lon flew against his seat restraints and lost consciousness for several seconds.

When his eyes fluttered open again the Ork warbuggy was teetered onto its side, the metal armour plates groaning miserably. Then the xenos vehicle thumped onto its roof and began a slow rolling tumble down the side of the hill, picking up speed as it went. Soon enough it was careening and somersaulting through the air, chunks of metal flying off it in all directions. Any occupant within would have been smashed to pieces if they had been human. Lon knew all too well that the driver was not.

He did not wait around to see if anything survived the wreckage. He kicked out the splintered windshield, threw the bush-wagon in reverse and backed away as quickly as he could from the edge of the hill. This was someone else's fight, someone else's homestead. He had his own to get to and protect.

The southern lowlands were awash with chaos.

What Lon had expected to be a carefully planned strategic assault upon his homeworld was nothing short of clumsy, erratic self-indulgent behaviour, better suited to children playing with toys than soldiers working toward decisive military outcomes. It was lunacy upon a grand and terrifying scale.

Slapshod vehicles soldered together with unlikely parts, frilled by rusted, steel spikes and mounted with all manner of rockets and heavy weaponry rolled across the farmlands, shooting into hapless dwellings. Aircraft that were abominations of the sky, defying all natural laws of lift, weight, drag and thrust, swooped and buzzed like over-bloated beetles, dropping bombs and blasting away local traffic with autocannons. It was messy, thoughtless carnage.

Lon lurched the wheel again and bounced along the shoulder of the road, narrowly missing a family utility-wagon racing back in the opposite direction. It was packed high with luggage and household items, the family cocooned within barely visible amongst their belongings, their eyes and mouths wide with terror.

Lon had taken a short cut he rarely used. Brog's bush-wagon was capable of going virtually anywhere the terrain was not absolute vertical, or barricaded by trees. Even the front end was braced by a huge rammer-bar, with sturdy roll-bars curling over the sides and roof. The tires were tall enough to reach Lon's shoulder. He sent a silent prayer of thanks and the Emperor's Protection to his old PDF buddy back in Artenville for lending him the big truck.

Lon shot along a high ridge that overlooked the valley where his farm lay. Down below he could see the Orks had assaulted every farmhouse and estate in the area. Tiny black snub-nosed craft zipped about from one smoking ruin to the next. Contrails flared in the morning sunlight, followed by the bright flashes and thunder of rockets exploding. Lon's heart wailed against his ribs.

His entire life was being obliterated before him. The only thing solid and standing was his fear. The worst fear he had experienced since the Ma-Ladriak Coast. It was this that pushed him forward into the madness that had swept through the southern lowlands.

A burna-bomber dropped out from the blue skies. Its landing skids barely missed the bush-wagon's roof. Lon felt the scolding wash of its afterburners through the opening where the windscreen had been followed by the ear-splitting roar of its passing. He veered down the side of a ridge toward a rocky gully a hundred meters downward. He barely managed to twist the wheel over and keep the vehicle upright.

Behind him the Ork junk-jet continued on its maniacal path, ignoring the bush-wagon altogether. The xenos pilot could have turned its guns and rockets upon him and there would be nothing more to worry about, nothing more to fear. Instead, the rumbling and smoking burna-bomber searched for some other hapless vehicle or people to prey upon.

Of the Orks themselves, Lon had seen none. At least not up close. He was prepared for what they must look like. He had heard the stories and had seen the shaky sketches the old Imperial Guardsmen had drawn in their classification field manuals, alongside other strange creatures that wreaked havoc throughout the Imperium. He had caught only the briefest glimpse of green in the Burna-bomma cockpit as it had shot past, but that was all.

Green flesh; the colour of hate and malice. Like no other green he knew. Not the green of trees or grass, or the ocean, or the green of garments, but a foul, effusive green. Like slime or fetid mud or adrenal viscera. No details, just the unsettling hint of living things that were not human. A cruel parody of an anthropoid that wanted everything he loved in his life dead and burning.

The farm was on fire!

Most of the livestock were scattered across the burning paddock, braying and mewling, much of their number eviscerated. Their bloated bodies twitched in death throes as their hides cooked, cloven hooves stiff in the air.

The main house was aflame. Black smoke billowed high into the fall sky.

Lon slewed the bush-wagon to a teeth-jarring halt. The vehicle tore up the length of the front lawn, ripping a huge swathe through Iailia's favourite jamma-mint patch, sending pale pink and white blooms fluttering into the air as the big truck's wheels spun to a stop. Lon launched bodily out through the driver's door, las rifle in hand. He screamed out to his family.

There was no response.

Smoke burned his eyes and clawed at his throat. He gagged and spluttered as he raced into the choking, black miasma.

' _Iailia_!' he screamed. ' _Osham_! _Jonas_!'

On any other day his family would have raced out the front door to greet him. Iailia would wave as she pulled open the flyscreen to let the boys out. Osham or Jonas would jump from the balcony and charge across the yard toward him, trying to tackle him to the grass, giggling and squealing as they came. But not today. No one came out to greet him at all. Only the black tentacles of smoke and roaring flames.

The heat of it already singed the hairs across the tops of his arms.

' _Iaaaaaaaiiillllliaaaaa_!' he howled one last time.

Then they appeared!

His family was caked head to toe in soot, their eyes red from the smoke and fumes, weeping and gasping.

He thought he would lose his mind in relief as his hopes sang out from him in bellowing, grateful sobs. His family had been too terrified to come out into the open. They had been waiting for him, even as their house burned down around them. They lived!

Lon heard the jet-engine before he saw it.

His training – infused with blind rage – brought him about-face in an instant. The las rifle slammed up against his shoulder. One eye scanned the length of the barrel jacket to the front sight housing, bracketing the green head of the Ork pilot in the Burna-bommer's open-air cockpit. It looked just like the one that had swooped him earlier.

Both xenos and human fired simultaneously. The only protection Lon had was the roiling smoke from the house fire and the las rifle. The odds were pitiful.

Nevertheless, the las rife was as flawless a weapon as Lon could have hoped for. It sang in his hands, rejoicing in the sureness of his aim. It sent twin double-tapped bolts searing through the air as the Burna-bomma's guns thundered.

A deadly hail of rounds, capable of shredding Lon's body to ribbons, ripped up the ground in front of the swooping junk-jet. Columns of dirt and grass flew upward as the ground rattled beneath the impacts.

The Emperor's Holy fire won the day. It blew apart the alien's skull (a splendorous reminder that these creatures could still be as frail of flesh and bone as any human), shattering it into steaming chunks.

Yet even before Lon could enjoy his victory over the Ork pilot, he already knew he had lost.

He turned back to the house.

He did not gasp aloud. He knew what had happened, had seen it in the blazing path of the xenos' autocannons.

The las rifle slipped from his trembling fingers. Something cracked open inside him as his eyes fell upon the sprawled remains of his family.

He had been too late. Perhaps only by a few minutes. Just a few minutes earlier and he could have had them in the bush-wagon, racing back to Artenville, to Brog and the PDF. Left with no choice his family had been doomed from the beginning. To die inside the burning house, or to come out into the open to be chopped to pieces by the Burna-bommer's big guns.

Lon sank uselessly to his knees. He crawled over to his family. His fingers clawed through the damp grass of the yard. He held their shattered remains in his arms, weeping and howling, clutching them and struggling to absorb everything he could of them through the anguish ridden portal of his eyes.

The house fire was spreading. Its heat seared the hairs on the backs of his arms, smoked the hair from atop his head. He welcomed it. He noticed movement behind him but gave it little heed. Instead he picked up his two boys and carried them out to the yard away from the flames, laying them gently on the grass in front of the bush-wagon. Then he returned for his precious Iailia and did the same.

She looked like she was sleeping. The serenity upon her face belied the damage that inflicted her body. She looked so peaceful there, her sun-blonde hair tumbling across the bright green of the lawn.

Lon laid her down and wept. His world had come to an end here and he no longer cared for it or anything anymore. Once he was done looking upon them he would walk straight into the flames of his burning house and be done with it.

He struggled to breathe, struggled to remember all the good things they had shared.

Then something grabbed him. It grasped the back of his neck with huge fingers as hard as granite, and drew him inexorably to his feet.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAMPION OF ABBAWAN**

* * *

 **++ 4 ++**

 **ABBAWAN. IMMRIAN BELT SUB-SECTOR. ULTIMA SEGMENTUM**

 **Dury Farmstead, and Southern Lowlands**

 **13th Day of Lentus, 103.M42**

He barely noticed what was happening, so focused was he on his wife's beautiful face.

Then he was in the air, feet dangling off the ground, feeling the muscles in his neck constricted to a point that the bones in his spine were ready to snap.

'Yumie godda'no famee now,' a cruel voice, impossibly deep, belonging to boulders and dark, cavernous places rumbled over him. A fetid carnivore's breath.

He was twisted around by the scruff of his neck like a kitten drawn from a well, and suddenly he came face to face with the Foe.

The Ork was huge. Bigger than anything he had ever imagined, even after seeing the Guard's life-sketches in their field manuals. The ugly green face leered at him, three times the size of his own. It possessed a log crushing jaw with several tusks in an expansive underbite. Baleful red eyes appraised him with slitted pupils bright with sadistic curiosity. The smell of it was utterly unforgiving. It seemed to reek from its pointed hairy ears down to its gigantic clawed toes with a foul musk that made Lon think of rotting river-urchins left out on the rocks in the hot sun for weeks. The stench made his head swim. Then again he supposed the onset of his neck snapping in the creature's fierce grip was the actual contributor to his near unconscious state.

It stood at least another head taller than Lon, and Lon was tall amongst men. Its girth, however, and the width of its expansive musculature was what gave it monstrous proportions. Great slabs of corded muscle were slapped over a ponderous, apine body. Yet there was nothing ponderous in its movement. It twisted him from side to side to get a better look at him. Its lip curled upward revealing huge teeth in what must have been the alien's attempt at a grin.

'Sho sho shad, Yumie godd no 'ome now.' It rumbled at him, waiting for a response. 'Ya shoot gooda-good for' a shoft shkin. Baggut'sh brainzh are all ova my cockpit winda. Now I'ma de Captain of da birdy. But yoo loosh yor famee, Yumie. Too too bad, huh?'

Lon could almost understand the stupid creature, though he could barely believe the mentality behind its communication. How were these things even remotely successful against the Imperium? That simple piece of trivia was more an atrocity than anything.

'Shut up and kill me, you ugly piece of skaf!' Lon spat at the thing. He lashed out with his boot and caught the creature on its chin.

The kick barely made the Ork's head bounce. It did, however, induce a response. With a low growl of irritation the greenskin threw him over its shoulder, across the yard, with the same ease as if it had tossed an unwanted morsel of food away.

The pressure on his neck was relieved. Then Lon face planted his wife's jamma-mint patch. Mud and jamma-leaves filled his mouth and eyes and he spluttered and struggled to get his breath back, to get to his feet.

The alien was toying with him. Even as he turned around to face the Ork he could see it chuckling cruelly from across the yard, waiting to see if he would run away or attack. Appraising his every movement with those smug red eyes.

Lon recalled Osham had left a shovel lying around here somewhere. Of what use it would be he doubted it would do much good. The huge xenos stood between him and his family - and the las rifle.

Lon found the shovel. His eldest boy's laziness had given him something to fight back with. Not much, but something. He picked the tool up with both hands and stalked toward the creature. He angled the shovel blade low to one side. It surely wouldn't do much against the resilient green wall standing before him. What he'd give for a real blade right now – or a chainsword! But he was no Gaurdsman. No Space Marine. Just a simple Abbawan Farmer fighting for his life.

He wondered how quickly it would all be over. The xenos seemed eager enough to draw the moment out.

Lon noted two things as he advanced on the Ork. It was armed. A huge vicious looking stubber was in one great meaty green fist, a weapon that could blow Lon's guts across the yard; and a variety of machete-like blades were stuck into belts across its huge chest and hips. And now more Orks, a dozen or more, were gathering around the burning house, creating a green-skinned ring around the little melee about to take place.

Lon watched them, mesmerised by their alien strangeness and bipedal familiarity. They were like the cruel kids you found in schoolyards across the galaxy – except these kids were eight feet tall, hunched over, and as wide as three men stitched together. They watched him with a brutal amusement, their ugly green faces intent on seeing something exciting and new.

'You want a bit of fun, huh?' Lon asked.

There were fifteen of them in the circle. Several Burna-bommer's were grounded in the fields around the house. He had not even heard them land.

The Ork tossed its stubber across the yard. The bulky weapon landed next to Lon's las rifle. The Ork then drew in a deep breath and flexed its shoulders. It interlaced its fingers in front of it. Lon could hear the sinew and bones in them crackle and pop like hardwood splitting inside a combustion burner. There did not look to be a single soft spot on any one part of the Ork's immense frame.

'Yumie fight good, we might let ya fly in da shky,' the creature growled.

Lon nodded. He took in the immense frame before him, assessing the weakest spot he could ascertain – which seemed a wild flight of the imagination. He took in the fifteen other green figures lurking nearby, each armed with stubbers and flamers. He glanced fleetingly at his las-rifle. It was like a far off tropical island in the midst of multiple tsunamis.

Lon launched at the creature.

It was startling to see something so physically cumbersome move so fast. It was only that Lon had made a feint as his first move that the creature came off balance. Just enough to unbalance it as it readied itself to let the shovel snap in half across its powerful forearm and spiked vambrace. It staggered, much to the amusement of its brothers, and Lon swung the shovel in a downward circle connecting with the creature's knee.

The shovel blade made a bright ringing sound and the metal buckled inward, but not much else happened.

Lon took a step back and swung again. This time the shovel did shatter. But across the Ork's iron hard skull. The creature grinned at him, huge teeth gleaming in that mouth as wide as a duffel bag. A tiny nick had opened up above its right eye and a trickle of blood poured down its cheek like a single, red teardrop.

The gathered xenos crowd grunted and roared with laughter. The entertainment had already lasted much longer than any of them had wagered.

Lon stood before the creature, realising he was now devoid of a weapon. Only the haft of the shovel remained, its splintered stump a pitiful prospect in his hands. The las rifle was still behind the Ork, still laying in the grass just as far as it had been at the beginning of the fight.

'You killed my family,' Lon said. He said it more to himself, to fire up his will to die then any expectation for a conversation with the greenskin.

'Whaddya gonna do abou'dit?' the Ork whimpered in mockery, pouting like a crying baby girl. The impression made its face twice as hideous to look upon. 'Ya hit lik'a Lil bitty Yumie. Yumie, yumie, yumie!' That brought a bellow of rumbling laughter from its audience, as if this was the best one-liner any of them had heard in years. 'It'sh gonna take a lot mor'den dat to knock'owt Locktoosh Da Bad'un.'

Lon sprinted head on at the creature.

Locktooth The Bad One's stony brows rose high in surprise. He even took a step back from the unexpected assault.

The stunned audience gasped at the human's audacity. In inquisitive unity they leaned forward to see how hard a human could charge an Ork. But Lon was not going to wrestle with the creature. Not if he wanted to live long enough to kill it. Instead, just as its arms came up to grab hold of him in what it thought was an insane attempt at a take-down by a human being, the young Abbawan farmer changed direction, twisting to one side and diving past the creature toward the weapons on the ground.

The Ork took hold of his ankle faster than he could believe. It pulled him backward scrabbling off the ground, so fiercely he felt his leg pop. His limb dislocated from the hip joint.

The trajectory the Ork was about to hurl him was straight back to where he had started, but Lon did not want to cover that ground again. This was it for him. This would be the end.

He swung his arms about the creature's powerful bicep and clung to it with all his might.

Cruel laughter rippled through the audience, and Locktooth staggered around in mock surprise, showing off to his Ork brethren as an adult human might an outraged child clinging to him.

What Locktooth did not expect, however, was Lon slamming the splintered shovel handle through his eye and deep into his skull.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAMPION OF ABBAWAN**

* * *

 **++ 5 ++**

 **ABBAWAN. IMMRIAN BELT SUB-SECTOR. ULTIMA SEGMENTUM**

 **Dury Farmstead**

 **13th Day of Lentus, 103.M42**

The cruel laughter died, instantly. The Orks stood gaping.

Locktooth The Bad One howled as blood poured down his face. His one good eye burned balefully as it centred upon the cunning little human. The part of Locktooth's alien brain not damaged by the spike of wood lodged deeply within it registered both pain and admiration at the little humie's victory.

He should have guessed it. He knew as much, had certainly had enough experience with the tricky little creatures before. Humie's didn't fight fair. That was why you shouldn't play with one. Locktooth remembered his War Unkle telling him something about that, a long time ago. 'Don't play wid da humies,' his Unkle had said. 'No matta how much it makes ya feel gooda good, don't do it. Humies are jus' vipers wid'out scales. Small, but dey'll bite ya mean. Humies don't play fair.'

Locktooth extracted the struggling human from his arm and swung his huge fist into its pale little face. The human raised its arms up in defence but the blow smashed through bone and flesh and sent the human sailing across the yard in a ragged, little heap, crumpling like a wet bag of scaly-wigs beside its family. It made a pleasing picture for Locktooth, that pile of little bodies.

Then he noticed the humie was still actually breathing! How was it even possible?

Locktooth was sure he should have killed the human instantly with one punch. It had worked before, every single time. They were just bags of flesh with all kinds of flimsy wet bits in the middle. One punch was all it took!

Perhaps it had something to do with the shovel handle sticking out of his face?

A gretchin with a bulbous, grinning head, standing no taller than Locktooth's knee, pointed at the scene alongside the rest of the Orks. It made a high-pitched snuffling sound. 'He hits jus' like a humie!' it said.

That brought a round of garrulous laughter from the gathered circle. Red eyes stared mockingly at Locktooth, shaking their heavy brows at him.

Well, that did it, Locktooth thought, he would right that wrong this very instant. The injured Ork stomped across the yard and stood over the wheezing human.

Something was happening. Locktooth could hear a strange whining noise inside his head. He squinted and then thumped his ear, hard. Then he looked up.

The crackling roar of a supersonic aircraft shattered the skies.

The sound was too clean and sharp to belong to anything that might rival the good, solid engineering of Ork aircraft. He looked up to see a streak of gunmetal grey against the bright blue sky. Then two grounded _Burna-bommer's_ exploded into mushrooms of flame behind him. Shrapnel pattered down around the Orks, smoking as it came.

'Finally!' one of the Ork's howled. 'Some proppa fights!'

'Back to da flyers!' another one howled. 'All da fun's in da sky!'

The Imperial Guard had arrived to strike back against the Ork invaders!

Locktooth touched the shovel handle protruding from his left eye and felt the beginnings of a rather uncomfortable headache.

He looked down upon the human that had inflicted such a grievous wound upon him. Seeing its chest heaving and stuttering, its face a ragged mess of shattered bone, still yet living somehow, Locktooth could not allow such a shame to go on. He would finish the tricky little humie off once and for all. Clever little thing it was. He would stomp on its head until it was flatter than the buckle on his belt.

Someone grabbed his arm and spun him about.

'Time t'go, Locktoosh!' It was his speedfreak brother, Jumpcut.

Locktooth scowled. 'I gotz only one eye now! I can't fly.'

Jumpcut slapped him hard across the cheek. 'No, ya daf-guntta. But I can. You can shoot! C'mon. Forget da yumie. It's about dead anyways.'

Locktooth gave the shattered human one last glance before he raced back to his _Burna-bommer_ watching jealously as Jumpcut took the pilot's seat. That humie had taken his eye and his right to fly. He had really liked flying too. Oh well. There were plenty of humies left to kill in the sky now, and there was lots of fun still to be had. Locktooth settled in behind the heavystubbers and grinned. He gripped the metal handles of the big guns in his fists and could feel the rush of battle-lust in his veins, even before the burna-bomber had left the ground.

Then a sharp pain shot through his skull, right where the tip of the broken shovel handle had lodged, and everything went black.

...

Lon was grateful the pain was fading. His vision was bad and getting worse. The Ork's fist had hit him harder than a Leman Russ tank running him down. If he had not instinctively raised his arms, now utterly useless and shattered at his sides, he would have died instantly.

Such a shame, he thought. Part of him longed for death to hurry itself up. He could still see out one eye, blinking through the blood that poured into it and drained down the back of his throat. He coughed. Pink foam bubbled over his lips. That was bad.

If he could have used his arms he would have reached out to touch Iailia's beautiful face. So instead he just lay there watching her, letting it all go. He would see her soon enough he expected. Somewhere in the Emperor's light. But he would see her again and he would see his boys again and they would all be together once more.

The thought pleased him as the black tide of unconsciousness lapped slowly over his senses and drew him deeply into its embrace.

In the distance he could hear the guttural laughter of the Orks as they started up their flyers. They had left him to die and he was grateful for that.

Soon, all the world vanished into a distant roaring darkness, funnelling away and away in long spirals and all Lon could see was one baleful red eye blinking at him in bewilderment, its counterpart vanished in the blackness behind a piece of shattered wood as long as an Imperial Navy Grand Cruiser. Behind the Ork's head the stars spun and flared. There was a constellation out there that reminded him of Iailia for some reason.

'Ya got no Ome, Yumie,' the Ork said to him in that simpleton, maniacal alien grunt. 'Ya got no famee…'


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAMPION OF ABBAWAN**

* * *

 **++ 6 ++**

 **++ _& EPILOGUE_ ++**

 **ABBAWAN. IMMRIAN BELT SUB-SECTOR. ULTIMA SEGMENTUM**

 **Abbawan**

 **1st Day of Stratia, 104.M42**

Brog could not believe how lucky his old friend had been. The mini-munitorum owner, once corporal for the Abbawan Planetary Defence Force and seasoned veteran of the Virimak campaign, shook his big, black bearded head in disbelief.

It had been ten months since the day of the attack upon the southern lowlands outside Artenville. The day the Imperial Guard had brought the Emperor's Wrath down upon the greenskins, blasting out of the skies, across the hills and lowlands. Brog had fought alongside them and watched in unadulterated joy the crushing defeat of the Ork war parties. Not one greenskin was left alive by the end of it. Brog himself had fired several autogun rounds into the thick skull of one and marvelled at how hard it was to kill the fungal spawned monstrosities, yet they had been wiped clean from the face of Abbawan. Purged by the Guard and the PDF. Someone had mentioned turning the abandoned xenos rust-bucket flyers and half-tracks strewn across the battlefield into memorial artefacts for a new museum in Artenville, but most of the community admitted it was still a little too soon to appreciate such things. Thousands had died in the raids, had lost entire families like poor Lon Dury.

If the stories were true his old friend had not gone down without a fight. After the Orks had burned his house to the ground and shot down his family, the rumours going around had become legendary. They spoke of Lon Dury, a simple Abbawan farmer, a PDF veteran, who had single-handedly shot down an Ork flier and then killed an Ork with nothing more than the broken shaft of an old square scooper, as difficult as that was to believe. But stories travelled fast in the lowlands and once uttered soon became solid fact.

Brog's wife and daughters were alive and well, and he was immensely grateful for that. Business was booming as offworlders came to see where the great battle had been waged. Artenville was flourishing. Now you could barely even pick out the remains of the burned down homesteads or the wreckage of shot down fliers, it had all been cleared away or grown over by bright green forge-grass or transformed by public renovation. But Lon Dury had been lucky.

Brog watched as his old friend appeared on the six o'clock news-feed and all the southern lowlands went ballistic. Abbawanians lined the streets in their thousands around the rehabilitation clinic Lon Dury was set up in alongside a few other PDF and Imperial Guard war heroes; screaming out his name, showering him with confetti and brightly coloured streamers. They were calling him: _The Champion of Abbawan_. The man who had fought with his bare hands not only against the Virimak uprising but once again against the Orks in the Invasion of the Lowlands. Brog felt sympathy for his old friend, knowing Lon would not be happy at all about the popularity.

The ex-corporal had visited his old PDF buddy several times in the medicae wards of the clinic, horrified by the damage inflicted upon the tall lowlander farmer. But as the months passed by Lon Dury slowly healed. The skin sealed and puckered and scarred, the bones of his shattered skull slowly reformed back to their original shape, revealing a face slightly more recognisable than it had been after hand-to-hand combat with an Ork. The lowlander farmer's broken arms and ruined leg knitted together until he had regained enough strength to walk. Then they had put him in an Imperial specialist rehabilitation clinic, one of the best in the sub-sector. Several months in there had worked a magic that was beyond description.

Brog wondered if they had preformed augmetic enhancements upon Lon in some way. The clinic had been a gift granted by a local Rogue Trader for the Imperial Guard and Navy troops wounded in the conflict, and had offered it over as a reward to the PDF defenders. Several of the Trader's top Rejuvenat Adepts were working in there. Though still heavily scarred Lon had walked out of that institute like a new man, striding out the front doors of the clinic without so much as a limp. On the news-feed vid Lon looked bigger and healthier than he had ever been – even back in their PDF days. Maybe it was just the effect of being on camera, bigger than life and all that.

The cam crews and news scribes raced up to the Champion of Abbawan. Brog grinned as his friend's battle-scarred face filled the entire vid-screen. Brog would be able to boast about it for years to come at the mini-munitorum. 'My best friend from the PDF, my old brother in arms, the great Lon Dury, the Champion of Abbawan' he would tell them. Then he would show them pictures of them standing together atop the jagged cliffs of the Ma-Ladriak Coast in '98.

'Lon, how are you feeling today?' the news-scribe asked, still panting after running over to greet him ahead of the other news-scribe packs. 'All of Abbawan is eager to hear how you're doing?'

Lon nodded shyly. Brog could see there was something flint-like in those dark green eyes he had never seen before. A deadpan focus that made his size and now heavily scarred features even more intimidating.

'I'd like to thank the people of Abbawan and the kind medicaes in the Imperial clinic for looking after me and the others. Lady Bran-Jin for spending so much on setting up the clinic in the first place for our war heroes. I haven't felt this good, physically, in years. They did superb work in putting me and the others back together.'

'Will you be returning home today?' the scribe asked.

Brog noted the flash of grief, followed by something menacing that was enough to make the scribe take a step back from the war hero. But then that deadness rolled over Lon's eyes again and he shook his head. 'I won't be going back home. Not today, or any other day for that matter.'

'Your first day free of the clinic and back on your feet, what do you plan on doing?'

Lon looked around at all the people lining the streets who had come from all across the world to welcome him back to Artenville and the southern lowlands. Were those tears in his eyes? Brog could not tell. His old friend licked his lips and took a long deep breath; he let it out and squinted at the news-scribe.

'I plan to sell the farm and join the Imperial Guard,' he said, tapping his head gently. 'If they'll have me. My family were taken from me and now I want to spend what days I have left in this body fighting for the Emperor. Nothing else matters.'

Brog's mouth dropped open in disbelief. His old friend was not coming home? Brog admonished himself when he realised he was a little disappointed that he would not get to show off his friend around town and talk about the war hero's great exploits. He also felt a little cheated. Lon owed him a _30,000pz_ las rifle! Brog reprimanded himself for thinking so selfishly and watched as his friend looked into the camera, and seemingly through it, as if he were searching for something, or someone out there.

'My purpose is to kill as many Orks as humanly possible before my days are through. You call me the 'Champion of Abbawan'. I vow to you that I will do everything in my capacity to make sure that what happened here on Abbawan will never happen again.'

That one statement brought a confounding eruption of applause that roared from the throats of hundreds of thousands of people gathered around the clinic, packing the streets and boulevards to overflowing with their numbers. People swamped in toward Lon Dury then. Men slapped him on the back and shook his hand. Women embraced him, their eyes streaming with tears. Old and young reached out to touch him as if he were something more than just an ordinary man who had barely survived a battle.

Brog found his hands clasped to his bearded mouth and tears in his eyes.

'He can't do all that on his own,' he whispered in wonderment.

The ex-corporal realised with mounting incredulity where his mind was leading him. He cursed himself for being such an idealistic fool, but he couldn't help it. He had lived the good life for so long he had forgotten what it was like to be a soldier. He missed being a soldier. His days in the PDF, fighting alongside Lon and their PDF battle-brothers, had been some of the best in his life, as harrowing as they had been. He wanted to kill Orks too - as many as he possibly could. There wasn't only one Champion of Abbawan in the galaxy, as far as Brog was concerned. There were _two_!

He turned to see if Norili was watching from the kitchen, but her back was turned, her hips swaying as she washed the evening's dishes. She would hate him forever for this decision, but he had made it and could not change it now. This was what he was built for, what he was best at. And nobody knew Lonnigan Dury better than Broglund Burnmire.

He stood up, collected his coat and the keys to his bush-wagon.

'Where are you off to?' Norili asked.

She was going to kill him for this. He knew it. That was why it was best he never came back. 'Just headed out for a bit,' he lied. 'Thought I might head down to the clinic and see if I can catch up with Lon again.'

'Alright. Don't forget to take out the garbage.'

'Yes. Of course, dear.'

He grabbed the garbage, kissed her deeply on the forehead, and was out the door before she could say another word.

Brog did not see Norili's smile, or the tears in her eyes. She knew exactly what her husband was up to, and was beaming inwardly with pride. She would miss him and his kisses. But she understood what his decision meant and she was content with it. Artenville had lost many people that cruel day, and now her husband and his friend might do something to fix that.

 **. . . . .**

'What do you mean I can't join the Guard?' Lon growled at the administrator.

The man was a small, weedy fellow in a bright yellow blouse. His neat greying hair was parted straight down the middle. Six, small implant jacks sat in his temple, red with infection, the skin around them gone to scale, and one arm was augmetically enhanced for writing notes with six copying quills. He looked up at the tall lowlander farmer with watery grey eyes. 'That's all there is to it, sir.'

'But this is the Tithing Office, is it not? You guys have been trying to enlist me here for five years running!' Lon looked menacing now when he got angry. His facial scars accentuated every unruly curl of musculature upon his visage. But the administrator did not seem perturbed in the least.

'Yes. But we are not accepting new recruits at this time, sir. I'm sorry, you will have to wait till the end of the year when the Tithes are mustered again.'

Lon glared down at the weedy man and scowled. 'Do you know who I am? Why I've come here?'

The administrator shook his head and continued on with his paper work. Lon realised the man was not from around here at all. Some off-worlder, thinking he could do things better than the lowlanders.

Lon leaned over and placed his big hand atop the man's paperwork, forcing the six scribbling quills to cease their work in pause, shivering at the end of the man's appendage.

'What would it take for me to join the Guard now. I have no time to waste.'

The administrator sighed heavily. He leaned back and pinched his nose with his natural hand, before sniffing efficaciously. 'There are no entries into the Imperial Guard here on Abbawan, I am sorry, sir. Unless you've got the money and the time to travel to, say, Peill V - 3.2 light years across the Belt - you won't be joining any Imperial Forces until the end of the year.'

Lon frowned. 'How much will it cost me to get to Peill V?'

The administrator stared up at him in disbelief. 'An Imperial freighter is due out there the day after tomorrow. I suppose you could purchase a place aboard her for something in the line of twenty-five thousand pazeks.'

Lon nodded. 'Done. Who do I pay?'

The man's mouth dropped open. 'I'm not a booking agent, sir. Why would you wish to pay your own money to enlist into the Imperial Guard?'

Lon did not repeat himself, but merely glowered at the man.

The administrator's eye-lids fluttered, then he made another long audible sniff. 'You'll have to see one of the officer's of the ship. You'll find most of them at the spaceport, the area assigned exclusively for the Imperial Navy. Or gambling their money away down at the Wheel & Want is more like.'

Lon turned on his heel and strode out of the administorum office. The administrator frowned after him, his brows knitting together as he tried to recall something. The man had looked terribly familiar somehow, but he just could not pick where he had seen him before.

Then one of his offsiders tapped his shoulder and said, 'you just told the Champion of Abbawan to go take a ship to Peill V.'

The administrator's eyes bugged out as he finally recalled the tall farmer's scarred features. He swallowed nervously, picked up his comms-cap and made a call to the Trader's Office.

Lon Dury never ended up needing to pay to board that ship to Peill V, not even one single pazek. He was awarded his own private berth aboard a Rogue Trader, paid for by the notorious Lady Bran-Jin herself. She claimed she was keeping her eye on the Champion of Abbawan - for she had plenty of them, not just the augmetic implants in her skull but personal agents scattered far throughout the galaxy - and when Lon was passed over to the Imperial Guard they welcomed him into the fold as a Sergeant. Brog Burnmire was there too, grinning like a fool.

Together they were off to fight the good fight and rid the galaxy of as many greenskins as they could.

But that is another tale to be told at another time…

* * *

 _ **Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my little story about poor, old Lon Dury. Please let me know what you thought, good or constructive, all is welcome. It is the only payment a poor and lowly writer can ask of from a Fanfic.**_

 _ **Once again, many thanks - and a salute to you! Until the next tale...**_

 _ **RAWK!**_


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